Everlasting Spark
by ink and ashes
Summary: Everything you know is wrong. Prequel to Everlasting Embers.


**E V E R L A S T I N G . S P A R K**

_Please don't make a sound  
Take a look around,_

_Can't you see what's right in front of you?  
_

Books and clothes and digital video discs littered their small room, the tangled bedsheets on the floor not included as they were still _somewhat_ in order. A few compact discs—still in their cases, thankfully—were thrown all over the floor in what must have been hurry. Surprisingly, the two mattresses—pushed against opposite corners of the room—were devoid of clutter.

With a sigh, Tarrant Hightopp pinched the bridge of his nose. How was he _ever _to get anything done in this mess?

Another survey of the disaster—perhaps it would all just clean itself up—set his decision in concrete. After changing into a more comfortable ensemble, he went about collecting the haphazardly discarded compact discs scattered about, setting them in their stand by the small desk that shared their mutually-used stereo system. Once he was certain all of the errant discs had been unearthed, he alphabetized them according to artist—and then by year if there were more than one album from any particular group. Next were the video discs—which should be in the _living room_, where the entertainment center had a spot specifically designated for such things!—and repeated the process of scanning each title and determining their place on the rack. Then her novels—her actual textbooks were perfectly untouched on her study desk. Finished with the easier of his tasks, he braced himself for his next.

The clothes.

_His_ clothes were all neatly arranged—by color and type of fabric—in his closet and bureau, folded and freshly pressed. None of the garments that so sadly occupied the floor belonged to him, and the _last_ time he had set about cleaning the wreckage his roommate—so easily distracted—had left in her wake, a few of her unmentionables had been thrown into the mix, adding a blazing blush of embarrassment to his cheeks.

Tarrant steeled himself for this, just in case. Gingerly, he pinched at the first article, trying to determine if it should be flung into the hamper or folded and put away. _'Wrinkled,'_ he observed of the striped shirt. It was blue and white with a black collar, hopelessly riddled with waves of disorder. At the very least, an iron was absolutely necessary… but did it need washing? Settling for the lesser of two evils, he added it to the pile of wash that needed doing and proceeded to the next piece. Which was a nightgown, to his dismay, but it could have easily been worse. Again, he threw it to the pile alongside the first, quickening his pace; he needed to get the stitching done on his little sister's dress, else the scamp would scowl and whine to no end… and allowing his prudish cowardice to eat up anymore of his time would simply not do.

Shirts and shorts were thrown into their respective piles and once they had all been distinguished, he dumped the 'need washing' bunch into the small hamper on her side of the room and quickly folded the once that looked decent enough to be worn again. The problem came, however, when he spied her drawers—scrunched up bundles of clothing that had no logical order or sense—and paused, unable to stem the twitching of his hands.

How could she find anything? Granted, he conceded she was unlike most women in that her vanity level was the equivalent of… well, she did not have any, simply put. He supposed that someone with that kind of attitude towards her appearance would not care about the state of her wardrobe—and, indeed, most days she sported the most unexciting outfits he had ever seen a female wear—but it was so at odds with her confidence… which bordered on conceited, if one managed to rile her up. He tilted his head, as if trying to glean an answer from the disheveled bureau that remained unhelpfully silent. Blasted thing. Perhaps if he just ignored it, the need to organize the nightmare would not be so great; thus, it was with yet another sigh that Tarrant placed the neat bundle of folded material atop the uneven and knotted open drawer, trying not to think of how _horribly unkempt_ it looked. How the small tower of clothes leaned, almost falling. How little bits of sleeves and hems peeked from the wood, begging to be fixed.

A few hours later, he draped the final ensemble—a pretty seafoam number he did not think she would have the mind to have—over a wire hanger and hooked it onto the metal bar in her closet, running his hands over the fabric as a vain attempt to stop static from ruining it. He had tried the best he could to establish some sort of order, but due to the eccentricity of the lot, the best he could do was color-scheme. At least it _looked_ better…

After _that_ chore, the bedsheets were a breeze, her quilt of midnight-blue—splattered generously with nautical stars—easily straightened.

Their grandfather clock chimed eight times, startling him. He had gotten out of classes at five in the afternoon. _'Damnation,_' he grumbled, grabbing a towel and heading off to the showers before he resigned himself to a night of catching up on time so quickly lost. Closing the dormitory door behind him, he untied the pale ribbon that kept his wild hair in line, wishing the dread would unwind so easily. How could he allow himself to become so obsessed? His compulsive disorder would be the death of him—or _her_, if he could bring himself to do so. Oh, how he wanted to grab her by her head of healthy hair and _pull_… or throw her down on her multi-colored bed and _demand_ that she never leave their residence so damned _disorderly_ again.

It was as he wound a corner of the corridor—oddly quiet for a Friday night—that he bumped into the object of his annoyance. Alice. His ridiculous and infinitely beautiful Alice. Rosy-cheeked and positively _bursting_ with excitement, she latched onto his arm and squeezed, her eyes glowing. Her curls were free and bouncing right along with her. "Tarrant! I was looking for you!" she breathed, panting.

His brows rose of their own accord. "You were?"

She giggled. It was most becoming. "What are you doing tonight?"

What a silly question. "Homework. And Malmuria's dress," was his easy reply, still a bit tetchy.

A shadow flickered across her face. It brought a frown to his, as he did not understand it. "Malmuria?" she questioned, her voice small.

"My sister," he clarified. He watched her eyes brighten again and his chest tightened, a part of him relieved. _'No, I'm angry at her,'_ he reminded that idiotic little Tarrant that wanted to scoop her into his arms and skip back to their room, scolding her about her sloppiness amidst butterfly kisses and—he cleared his throat, uneasy. When he searched for his lost disgruntlement, he wanted to growl when all he found was that silly flutter in his stomach. It was probably just hunger gnawing at his belly. Hunger and _nothing else_. "She wants to be the 'belle of the ball' at some celebration her friends are having."

"Ah," she snorted. "When is it?"

"Her party?" he reitinerated. She nodded and he explained. "Next week, but her anxiety demands I finish it by tomorrow morning."

Those impossible blue-gray eyes widened, a smile lifting the corners of her lips. He tried not to stare. "Excellent!" She started for their rooms, dragging him along. "You're going to accompany me."

After the initial shock, he firmly stood his ground. "Excuse me?"

Alice turned to him in exasperation, her hand still lightly held in his. "It's Mally's birthday! She wants to celebrate at the Three Sisters, and _you're coming with me!_"

"Which one?" he could not help but ask. The Three Sisters was a very popular student bar with three establishments in Scotland, each large and able to fit over a thousand guests. Mallymkun had managed to reserve one? That girl had more merit than he had initially thought.

But it was not Mallymkun that had stopped his idling brain. Alice had stated that she wanted him to come along. With _her_. Was he to be her date? The heat rose in his face as he thought of it, an insurmountable pleasure unfurling in his chest before he could stop it. She had disposed of that vile boyfriend of hers—Ilosovic, a _Stayne_ upon humanity, he had quipped a fortnight prior as he tried desperately to calm her—after a mere month of courtship and was free to pursue whomever she wished. Could she have possibly chosen him? The thought boosted his confidence significantly and Tarrant could not help but build a mountain out of an anthill. Surely he could not misread this; a very beautiful woman he knew well enough—almost intimately, though clothes did not count in this sense—to name five of her favorites without so much as a thought, was asking him to attend a party with her. It did not matter who was there or where they went, so long as it was with _her_.

"The one on Cowgate," she supplied, breaking him out of his trance.

He must have looked quite silly, his glassy eyes clearing as another frown marred his brow. "Cowgate? That's an hour away." About fifty-four miles, if memory served him correctly. If Mally had a large guestlist then that pub would more than account for their crowd and then some. "When are you leaving? It's already eight." It seemed odd that they would plan their departure so late; of course, they would probably act like lunatics until dawn, but usually had more care to start earlier than this.

"Err," she tried, and he wondered at her sudden shyness. "You see, that's why I was looking for you." Her eyes were round with hesitation. "They left a while ago." And a nervous laugh. She rushed through the rest, the words leaving on a single breath. "I fell asleep in the park and completely forgot. Can you give me a ride?"

Something, not unlike a zeppelin, crashed into his mountain of hope and the entire massif crumbled. So _here_ was the crux of it. How did this small slip of a girl manage to constantly knot him in turmoil? So quickly would he bring himself up, only to have her inadvertently knock him down with a few words of her soft voice and that ethereal gleam in her vibrant blue eyes. It hardly seemed fair, but it was _he_ that gave her that power; he, that would let himself glean the largest assumption—and often, the most amazing—possible from the tiniest hint of beckoning. He, that would go out of his way so that absolutely beautiful smile on her perfect face would never diminish… and if it did, he would run through hoops of fire so that the sparkle would return. Tarrant was the imbecile that let himself be swayed by the inkling of a promise she most likely was unaware she gave every time she spoke to him… touched him… teased him…

And yet, the resentment was unavoidable. He wanted to sneer at her, scream at her… but he could not. In the end, it was his fault and his alone.

"Wait for me in the lot," he found himself saying, hating both her and himself for it. "I'll be there in a second, I have to put the towel back."

The words were barely out of his mouth when she pounced, her torso a surprising warmth against his own. A million watts of electricity erupted throughout his frame without remorse and if he had not been so enthralled by the enchanting sensation, he might have noticed the elated flush of her cheeks. The shudder of happiness that shook her. The shy smile she hid in his chest… but he did not notice, and so simply stood there like a mannequin. She pulled away before the thought of reciprocating the embrace could finally echo through the cavern that was once a nicely-filled cerebrum. She must have noticed the taut muscles of his jaw, for that sweet grin fled again; he did not know why he cared so much. "Hold on, aren't you going to get dressed?" She looked him over and he was acutely aware—and embarrassed—of his simple cotton pants and equally plain shirt. Alice had seen him in less—complete and total humiliation, that—but that little Tarrant was a devious bastard, whispering thousands of suggestive notions in his ear. "You can't very well go in _that_; it's a theme party!"

That flutter returned. He tried to stomp it down. "I was not invited, Alice, so I would not know about a theme." He looked away, determined to ignore the disappointment there. She had disappointed him _so many times_, but how could she know? It was never intentional. "And I have much to do. So be a good lass and wait for me. I trust you remember my automobile?"

The tease was meant to lighten the mood—such a small corridor was not meant to hold so many mixed emotions—but instead, she glared. "It's somewhat hard to forget your _car_," she emphasized, and he wanted to correct her: it was a Bugatti Veyron, gifted to him by his father before said Hightopp's passing. One of his most prized possessions. But Alice was still speaking. "And you are most certainly invited! Now come on. We're most likely going to have to stop off at a shop on the way to find something for you, but if you wear that leather vest you have we can probably pull it off…" She was pulling him along again and he let her, only because he had to put the blasted towel back anyway—if he left it in his automobile, he would go insane trying to find it later, never mind if he left it somewhere else entirely.

Tarrant had completely forgotten his crazed cleaning—seeing her had that kind of effect—and her little gasp caught him off guard. Her little fingers squeezed his and the look of adoration broke his heart, for it would never be enough. Nothing would ever be enough. "You didn't have to do this, Tarrant! I can clean up after myself." But her voice—her _squeal_—was so pleased, the few hours of handling her topsy-turvy wardrobe felt worth it… like the hundreds of times before. _Now_ he remembered why he did this.

"I have yet to see you practice this mysterious skill of yours," he joked, smiling to show that 'twas all in jest. "But hurry and dress, I will start the car and meet you in the front. Twenty minutes?" he guessed.

That glare returned, full force. Her hands fell away and he immediately missed her touch. "You're coming with me."

Why? So that he can watch her twirl around freely with other people—other _men_—and wish that he could act so thoughtless? Watch her flirt and tease in that harmless way she did, never knowing that her everyday gestures and quirks garnered such strong reactions from those she bestowed them upon? He _lived_ with her! At times he swore his decision for a co-ed campus had been the _dumbest_ idea he had ever had… but at other times, he swore it was his most brilliant. When he had the opportunity to watch her face right before she drifted off to slumber, when he could watch her dreamy-eyed awakening in the mornings—or late afternoon, whenever she decided to wake. Watch her scamper around in a hustle for homework she had forgotten, or dance around in barefeet and her little night pieces. Watch the light play over her honey waves as she bent her head over another of her novels. He was _always_ just watching, but those moments were his alone… this party would _not_ be one of those.

It was already ridiculously difficult to get her out of his mind. Must she make it impossible? "Thank you for the offer," he started, trying not to grit his teeth at her. "But I would much rather tend to my responsibilities." Tarrant knew when he was acting like a child. He was being silly; he wanted her to want a _date_, not just a ride. Not invite him from some sort of guilt, only to have him sulking in a corner for an hour before he excused himself and left even more miserable than he had arrived.He wanted her to _want him_. "I'm sure one of the others will give you a ride home."

She did not budge. Why must she always pick the _worst_ opportunity to be so damnably hardheaded? "Why are you being so stubborn?"

His brow furrowed deeply. Had she _really_ just asked that? He forced himself not to hurl an off-hand insult that he would regret later. "I assure you, I simply want to have a quiet night in." _Lies_. _Falsehoods. Fallacies. _His parents would tan his hide if they heard him utter such obvious untruths… were they still alive. "Why are _you_ being so adamant? I would hardly be compelling company—" Only because he was grumpy and—it hurt to admit, as pitiful as he was—jealous. "—and I have _things to do_."

Alice pointed a finger at him, narrowing her eyes. "Excuses. I could shoot them all down and you _know_ it." In the next instant, the hard edge was gone. Her eyes were impossibly large again, pleading with him. He did not understand how she could _do_ that. "Please, Tarrant? Don't make me beg."

"Pardon?" Beg? She need only ask and he would lay down the world and his soul on a golden platter at her feet. But _this…_

She let out a shaky breath, laughing with nerves. "You're going to make me do it anyway. Horrid man." Before he could ask her to elaborate, she barreled on. Just as she always did. "Please keep me company? _Please_? Mally invited Stayne _weeks_ before we broke up and there will be _so_ many of her mates from Ireland I won't know and I just _know _I'll get lost…" Those doe-eyes again. Was it deliberate? "Please, Tarrant? I want to go for Mally, and because it _might_ be fun… but not alone. You're the only person I trust not to steer me wrong and I just don't have the courage. I _need_ you there." A pause, then, "I will _not_ go if you don't."

Well. Now he felt a bit like a horse's arse. Without thinking twice on the impulse, he reached for her hands and held them gently within his, keeping his eyes on them. His scarred and calloused fingers did not seem to suit her fine and delicate appendages, though their ashen complexion matched almost perfectly. Tarrant wondered when he had become so selfish, rubbing small circles over her soft flesh. "What was the theme?" he found himself asking; Malmuria would understand and if she did not, the dress would be done before the deadline at any rate. Homework could wait for the next day. He would forsake peace and quiet and obligation for a night of rowdy drunkards and miles of tension—and _so many_ warring emotions—so that the girl could enjoy herself in a land not her own, with people that would take advantage of her—though Mally was a genuine friend, he knew he could not trust that Irish runt of a girl to look after Alice when there was a pint to be devoured—and he would be her shield, both physical and emotional, against a man that had not deserved her attention, let alone affections.

She flung herself at him again, thanking him vigorously. The death of him, this woman. Against his chest, he made out "Pirates!" to which he winced, understanding her earlier quip about his vest. Of all things, pirates? And what shop would be open at this time? Certainly not a _costume_ shop. She should have told him of this in advance; he could have had an ensemble for both of them ready and she _knew_ that.

"Will I be turned away at the door if I do not appear as… a _swashbuckling_ pirate?"

Her laugh warmed him; he would need every shred of comfort if he were to survive this. "No, but why would you not?" She poked him. "Everyone loves a pirate."

He cleared his throat. "Ask the navy ships they commandeered. You might get a different answer."

"Hey, don't get smart with me." But there was mirth, so palpable. Tangible. He wished they could just stay home and talk the night away, as they did every now and again. "But if that makes you most comfortable, then fine. Wear whatever you like—I suppose that's fair enough."

Fair enough? Tarrant had decided to forego everything that was much more important than some silly affair to drive her fifty-four miles—and then back, because if he was going to take her there and stay, then he had _damn_ well be the one to drive her home!—and essentially _chaperone_ her… in exchange for _nothing_. Nothing, except for the peace of mind that he did not have to worry about an eye-patch or knee-high boots. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he waved her off and set forth to find something suitable… although, in a room full of drunken pirates, he could wear nothing and seem perfectly normal.

_How hard is it to see?  
Put your faith in me…_

Her blue eyes stared back at her, wary and afraid.

Her hands were shaking, even as she gripped the edges of the sink to still them. The fine hairs on her arms were standing on end, every fiber of her being on high alert. She tried to glare them into submission, but anxiety and anticipation were fighting a vicious battle within; _what_ had she been thinking? That silly little display in the hallway had been the worst bit of acting she had ever witnessed—never mind that _she_ was the pathetic actress—and she could not believe the usually sharp Tarrant had actually succumbed to her mountain of white lies and half-truths. He put entirely too much trust in her, she realized, and the weight of guilt plagued her.

Alice _did_ want to avoid Ilosovic at all costs, but even if she were to bump into him she knew the man would not speak a word to her; though persistent, even a man as stubborn as that black-haired charmer knew when he could not win a heart that already belonged to another. Stayne had guessed the truth all too easily, instilling a paranoia that went haywire whenever the object of her affection was near—and he was _very very_ close… changing clothes on the other side of the bathroom door.

But… were the lies really so awful? Tarrant was uptight in most situations—thankfully, she had edged close enough that he easily loosened around her—and a silly pub party would hardly sway him. He would have probably balked if she flat out asked him to be her date for the night. The idea for a ride had popped into her brain on a whim—even though Alice had purposely been left behind for the sake of this little coup—but she should have known that would not bind him to her for the rest of the night… and so, the damsel in distress had been the only conceivable option which, thankfully, had worked like a charm. His hesitance and ultimate displeasure wriggled like a black snake in her stomach. If he could just _stay_ with her, maybe she could prove that she was worth his time; perhaps, they were not such an odd match. That they could be _good_ together. Hours daydreaming about the two of them, side by side in a cozy home somewhere by the beach… she could imagine no other than him. Alice knew he was The One.

Her father had taught her, as a child, to trust her instincts. And everything pointed at him.

Her compass fairly screamed in his direction. If she were wrong, so be it; she would _break_ the damned compass and rig it. But she needed him to see her as _more_ than just a roommate-turned-friend. Cleaning up after her, helping her with the harder bits of homework, _taking care of her_ like a big brother was _not_ what she wanted. Alice was a woman—_his_ woman, if he would just open his eyes—and this party was the perfect opportunity. If all went well, she would owe Mallymkun a great deal; she had set up the playing field, all Alice had to do was play.

"Are you finished?" came the tight inquiry of the very man that had her so thoroughly vexed. "It's been longer than twenty minutes, you know."

It hardly mattered what time they got there. The festivities would last well into the next day… but if Alice had her way, _they_ would be on their way back to this very dorm within an hour of arriving at the Three Sisters. Her hands began to sweat. "Just a moment! I'm having trouble with this corset."

"Corset? I thought this was a pirate theme?"

She huffed, fumbling with the silly thing. She had not yet tried to put it on, but she figured it was as good excuse as any. "Yes, and pirates are always surrounded by scurvy wenches."

His laugh was so sweet. She could listen to it forever and never tire of it. "You, my dear, have read far too many of those paperback fairytales."

My dear? A multitude of shivers ran down her spine at the off-handed endearment. The red and black lace corset slipped from her trembling fingers and when she hurriedly tried to grab it from the floor, she banged her head on the sink. Alice cried out in pain, stars exploding in her vision. She cursed her stupidity. "Oh, _botheration!_" she swore, anxiously inspecting her reflection; she had to look her best for him, and an unsightly bruise would simply not do.

"Are you alright? Do you need help in there?"

The breath froze in her chest. The loose white shirt was opaque at best—a small, sleeveless jacket would preserve her modesty—and flared nicely at the sleeves, and though she wore appropriate underwear beneath, he would clearly be in view of her… _assets_. The corset was made to be worn atop this shirt and beneath her bustline, effectively lifting and enhancing even her minimal cleavage to monstrous proportions; the dipping collar would show much more once said garment was fastened around her middle, which had been the reason behind purchasing the additional little jacket—she was _not_ an exhibitionist, after all… but would she be able to handle Tarrant seeing her thus? Touching her… his finger brushing places and pockets of flesh never before explored? She was overcome with a swell of tingles. "Uh…" Clearing her throat, she tried again. "Do you know _how_ to tie one of these?"

His tone was scolding. Even through the door, she felt the glare. "I'm very well acquainted with any article of clothing ever made by man. Have you forgotten my major?"

"No, no," she hastily amended, feeling foolish. His talent had been one of his most pleasant traits. "But… yes, please come in."

She had not realized that she would so easily give her consent, but in all matters Tarrant, her mind did _not_ take the forefront. When he stepped into the lavatory, she had a moment to admire his casual jeans and black, silk button-down. Unimpressive black boots covered his large feet. Simple and clean. His hair was twined in a plait, fastened by a green thong that trailed down his back carelessly. Red stubble dusted his jawline but he was very careful never to appear scruffy; even his goatee was evenly trimmed and thoroughly groomed. All in all, he was very handsome and had she not already taken to leaning onto the treacherous sink to steady her wayward nerves, she would have required something to keep her knees from buckling.

Alice heard the tiny gasp he tried to hide behind a cough, saw the color rise in his cheeks. Did he enjoy the view, or was he merely shocked? Was she a harlot for _wanting_ him to enjoy it? Was he revolted? She did not think she was _that_ unappealing. "It ties in the front and back. The front's easy enough, but all of the big knots go back here and I just can't reach." Alice tried to steady her hands enough to show him what she meant, hoping the cloth did not shake as well.

He nodded and motioned for her to turn. When she tried to watch his face in the mirror, he ducked his head. She frowned. "I may… unintentionally touch some… _parts _of you… I… I promise I will do my best to avoid it, but… I-I'm sorry if I do. Terribly sorry." His face in view once more, she took note of the odd expression there, unable to decipher it. There was worry and trepidation in his voice… but… was that nervousness? Was he _scared_? The color had not fled, and his eyes were twinkling… what did it mean? Oh, what she would give for just a day in his thoughts. He could run his hands over her _everywhere_ and the thought of propriety would never present itself. When she nodded her approval his face lowered and she could no longer contemplate the myriad of emotions there.

Gentle hands brushed her hair over a shoulder and she obediently held it there for him. His arms came up and over her, lowering to place the corset properly. So close to an embrace, she had to fight herself to keep from closing her eyes and simply leaning into him. The moment passed and when the tip of his finger—barely a quarter of his nail—brushed the sensitive flesh of her breast through the thin shirt, she jolted. He jumped in response to her surprise and the corset flew out of his hands, a thousand apologizes pouring from of his mouth.

"Tarrant!" she huffed, heat rising. Her body was on _fire_. "Tarrant! It's okay!" She grabbed his face in both of her palms.

"I'm fine," he croaked, then looked up at her through his lashes. "I did not mean—"

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Don't worry, I know you will not molest me." _Sadly_. "It was an accident."

He nodded and meekly asked for the garment again, his ragged breaths warm and a terrible tease against her neck. Several minutes passed, though she took no notice of the time; every instant in which his knuckles would caress something they should not have, her flesh sang with happiness—and he tried to reassure her that he had not meant to do such a thing as many times as he could. Once he had finally finished with the ribbons back there, he let her hair fall and turned her around. Tarrant must have forgotten that she was very able to do the stomach knots all on her own… but she was not about to dissuade him. The 'accidents' were much more reoccurring here and his face flashed fourteen different shades of crimson, all of them very becoming.

Once she was suitably dressed, he stepped back and… _stared _at her. "You…"

"Yes?" she prodded helplessly. Maybe he _did_ notice her.

"Ah… I'll be waiting in the car when you're ready." And he _ran_.

She stared after him, wondering how she had managed to inspire such a reaction from a fully grown man.

_You should get where you belong—  
Everything you know is wrong!_

Helping a woman dress—not that it had been _nearly_ as intimate—should _not_ have him so dizzy.

Tarrant had studied the female anatomy very closely, for one must know all of the crevices and curves of the very creature he wished to clothe. Her body had hardly been the first—or most impressive—of the softer gender he had ever gazed upon… and he had seen many women unclothed during his years studying the arts. Had touched the naked flesh of a woman, though that seemed so long ago now. The slender frame of a young woman with an ageless face should hardly affect him so deeply.

But it did. His hands were sweating on the steering wheel, clenching and unfurling in spastic intervals. He had _enjoyed_ the shadow of her brazier—blue, with intricate little stitchings of moss and butterflies—and his hands still _burned_ from the subtle, brief contact. Her skin had warmed him in areas he dared not contemplate, his mind had gone completely blank but for the millions of little fantasies the very sight of her inspired… the ridiculous part of him that dared to entertain such silly and impossible notions. If he had to stay there, in that tiny little bathroom, a moment longer, he may have done something she would have _never_ forgave him for and he truly did enjoy her company… as whimsical and wily as she was. The thought of her moving out and away from him _hurt_.

When she had finally bounced towards and into his vehicle, breath did not come easily. The sweet scent of her flirted with his nose.

Alice was absolutely beautiful. A shame she never took the time to dress herself properly, really… though, if he had to look at her like this every day, he might have lost his restraint a _long_ time ago, he reflected bitterly.

Her hair, always mesmerizing, was loose and luminous, the moon streaking the honey curls with tendrils of silver. Her pale skin did not need cosmetics to make it perfect, though the blush of exertion was more than enough to force a man to rein in the instinct to devour every inch of it; gloss shined on her pink lips, single lines of ebony rimming those eyes of hers—those gorgeous, heavenly eyes that he could write poetry for, recite sonnets and limericks until he was blue in the face—and mascara curling her long, long lashes. Her jewelry, he noticed, was entirely silver; large silver hoops peaked from her mass of hair, matching the simple chain that adorned her otherwise bare collarbone, a little Jolly Roger charm dangling from the center. Dozens of thin, silver bangles chimed softly on her wrists.

Her ensemble, which he had spied before, suited her alarmingly well; the corset emphasized her tiny waist and made her bust _very_ hard to ignore. A narrow strip of her flat stomach was exposed beneath. The little sleeveless black jacket was satin by make, threads of gray overlaying the hems and the mound of her shoulders where the long sleeves of the undershirt began its journey. It went well with the black cloth of her bell-skirt, the rose embroidery at the fringed edges touching her bare knees. Her boots of ebony suede were plain and the very top of them were folded over carefully, a simple button holding the material in place.

Overall, a very charming—very _alluring_—'wench' outfit… though he could have made her something much better.

"I did not tie it too tightly?" he could not help but ask, noting the unusually straight line of her spine as she clasped her seatbelt.

She smiled at him. "I don't think you could have done anything to prevent it. This thing was _made_ for suffocation." Alice reflexively toyed with the little bows between her breasts and he quickly forced his eyes forward, trying _not_ to remember the delicious shape of her.

He pulled the car into gear and finally pulled away from the parking area, a full hour after her hurried appearance in the corridor. A few meters from the campus went by without a hitch before her cry of "I forgot my purse!" made him slam on the brakes in impulse. He questioned her if there was anything of importance that she truly needed and when she replied with the simple answer of her wallet, he continued on the road, calmly informing her that he had _his_ wallet and would not mind supplying her for a night… whilst simultaneously thankful that he had not caused a severe collision. Her protests were ignored and, after a while, they too fell silent.

Once the quiet reached a fever pitch—their exhalations of oxygen were starting to roar in his ears—she kindly turned on his radio, turning the knob in search of something interesting. _Anything_ would distract him right about now. The same could not be said for her, as she gave up after a few moments and began rummaging through his compact disc album for something suitable to her tastes. "Hey," she finally murmured, holding a plain CD-R in her hand and inspecting the simple handwriting. "This is the CD I made you last year. You still _have_ this?"

"No. I chucked it out of the window the second you gave it to me and have merely created a duplicate so that you would not notice."

"Arse," she teased in response. He could feel the smile in her voice.

The disc slid quietly into the radio and with a small click, began to play. She skipped the first few songs—girlish love ballads that he had spent hours listening to, wondering if she had downloaded them with some hidden meaning behind it—and landed on one that, though not a particular favorite, had grown on him. She moved to skip it. "Wait, leave that one on. I rather like it."

He did not see the knitting of her brow, but her voice conveyed her disbelief. "You _like_ this one?"

Must she question everything? "The message is… an interesting one. The tune is quite catchy, too."

She said nothing in reply and after another minute, her soft voice began singing along. "_Hey man, please don't make a sound_… _take a look around; can't you see what's right in front of you?_" Those lyrics were _not_ meant to be used by her sweet, melodic tongue and the clear meaning behind them suddenly distorted. Turned into something else entirely. His mind could race around the possibilities for hours, but he had to make it to Cowgate in _one piece_. To his sanity's anguish, she continued. "_How hard is it to see? Put your faith in me… I sure wouldn't want to be praying to the wrong piece of wood._" Alice began to shrug her shoulders along to the rhythm, clearly enjoying herself. "_You should get where you belong—everything you know is wrong!_" She was fairly yelling now, but not painfully so.

With his permission, she blasted the volume to its highest frequency, his seat suddenly vibrating from the steady pulsating of the speakers. The automated windows went down and any passerby would _know_ of their presence from a mile away. Tarrant found he did not care as her voice escalated with the chorus, the sound free of restraint or care.

It must have driven her insane. The blonde hung out of her passenger-side window and yelled, her bottom high in the air and bobbing to and fro. "_Get back in here!_" he warned, but she was too busy whooping and catcalling those who wandered the streets and gave pause to her antics. He swerved to avoid an incoming car and frantically grabbed for her, uncaring that he perfectly cupped her right bottom. "You could have been killed!" he exclaimed, trying to calm his frazzled nerves. Silly woman! Her wanton ways would be the death of him—how many times he had this thought, he did not know, but it must have numbered in the millions by now—and if not, he would wind up in a coma from a heart-attack before he was thirty. Just like his father. Fitting, he supposed.

Alice, too pleased with herself—aggravating woman!—to care, lowered the volume and ignored the heat in his words. "I was _fine_. You worry too much, old man."

Old man? They were practically the same age! "No more loud music for you, _young lady_." He chanced a glance in her direction. "You are much too excitable."

Her giggle was endearing. All at once, his ire was doused. She was much too adorable to stay annoyed with. "What _does_ it mean? I don't really pay attention to half of the songs Mally downloads," she explained, looking for another track and kindly staying away from the volume knob. "I know it's something about religion."

"It mocks religion, actually," he informed, choosing his next words wisely. The golden rule of friendship included two die-hard facts which had proven time and time again that, if broken, would ruin even the most beautiful of friendships in the right circumstances. The first being to _never_ discuss politics and the second, _never ever_—even under the most dire of situations—discuss religion. Too many different views and opinions could quickly escalate into an argument that would have _disastrous_ consequences. Tarrant was not sure if it was best to bring this up… but she had asked… perhaps if he stated it as an objective observer. He certainly hoped he would not offend her. "If you listen closely, you can hear it; the band tries to point out the absurdity of religion and its hold on society. Namely, Catholicism and Christianity." Realizing how his words could be misinterpreted, he quickly added, "That's what I am led to believe, anyhow."

Another song was playing but he barely heard it, her silence louder than anything else in the automobile. When she finally spoke again, relief washed over him in waves. "Do you believe in God?"

And just as quickly, he was loaded with tension. How did one answer that? "I…" Tarrant began, unsure. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "My family is very pious," he hedged.

Her small "Oh," seemed… disappointed.

He sighed in resignation. If she hated him after this… well, then the night would be a lot shorter than planned. "I… did. Believe in God. Once," he admitted. He paused, fumbling for the right way of putting it. Then realized that there _was_ no 'right way'. "The idea of someone looking after us—looking _over_ us—is a comforting one. Reminiscent of a father in many ways." Her eyes on him were most discomforting. "I believe that everyone has the freedom to believe in what they wish… but no, I… I do not believe in God. Not anymore."

"Why not?" she queried. "What made you an atheist?"

"_Atheist_ is such a harsh word for it. I am not so narcissistic that I believe that human beings are the Higher Power, but the convenient stories of an omnipotent being moving all of us around like chess pieces… there must be something more behind it. Perhaps it is real, perhaps it is not… perhaps religion is made up of half-truths. Who am I to say? But I know that I stopped putting my faith in someone that blatantly ignores the suffering of his children." He swallowed a painful lump in his throat, his grip on the wheel turning his knuckles white. "A father could never blindly watch his children wither and die... watch them suffer atrocities a man worth his weight in salt would do anything to prevent. A father could never sit idly and watch hordes of his creations begging and praying for his Divine Intervention… and simply do _nothing_." The memories clouded his mind, all thoughts of 'objective' completely vanishing. "No, we make our _own_ destiny. There's no one there to hand-feed us and all of those idiots in those ridiculous wooden pews are filling their heads with a dream world and empty promises."

…Perhaps he had gone a _little_ over the top. Her soft hand gently laid over his right one, trying to calm him down. "Some say that God simply watches us and lets us tread down our own paths. That our actions are our own, but that he gently nudges us every once in a while when we've strayed too far." In a careful move, she leaned her head on his shoulder, an arm snaking around his waist. Oh dear, had he been shaking? Tarrant hoped he had not scared her away with his vehemence. "I understand, Tarrant. Not many people would, but… I don't know either," she confessed. "My family attends Sunday mass and wear rosaries and pray every night before bed. I was baptized when I was only two. But I… sometimes I look up at the sky and wonder if He's really there, or if we're all just trying to justify ourselves."

Her proximity was intoxicating. "Thank you," he managed. "I'm sorry if I offended you in any way."

"No!" she squeaked. "I'm very much relieved, actually. It's not often I can talk about something like this. Even _Mally_ thought I was mad when I told her of my doubts."

He smiled, the anger—the sadness, the resentment towards the Creator he had forsaken—draining in the wake of her gentle touch and words. Satisfied that he would be alright, she sat back in her seat. Tarrant missed her desperately. "You should believe in what feels right _for you_, not what is expected. If in your heart you believe in God, do not let anyone sway you otherwise." His grin angled mischievously. "Not that anyone _could_. You are much too stubborn for your own good."

"Tarrant!" She swatted at his arm. "I am _not_ stubborn. If _anyone_ is, it would most certainly be _you_."

"Me thinks thou doth protesteth a bit too much," he teased, enjoying this tangent of conversation considerably over the last. "Who managed to drag me out here?"

"Drag?" she reitinerated, slightly affronted. "I did not _drag_ you. You could have easily said no."

He guffawed. It felt good to laugh. "I did!"

Alice scrunched up her nose, he saw with a tiny bit of satisfaction. She seemed to deliberate her next offense before resuming the game. "Did you _honestly_ want to sit in all night? By yourself?" She did not let him answer. "I know how much you enjoying sewing and making things, but it's a Friday night! All of your friends—"

"_Your_ friends," he corrected.

"_Our_ friends," she amended stubbornly, proving his point _yet again_. "Are out and about celebrating. You can't tell me you wouldn't have thought about coming, even for a moment?"

He took the time to consider her words, admitting—to himself—that there was a ring of truth to them. '_Touché, Alice_.' But the debate was not yet won. "How can you think about something you have no knowledge of?"

Ah-ha! Stumped her again. She crossed her arms. "Don't pretend that this was _all_ against your will. Are you not the least bit excited?"

Blasted woman. She had him there, though not for the reasons she mentioned. _She_ was the only reason he was looking forward to this event. Her nearness would be the only joy the night would offer. Alice was unique, her charisma and charm unlike any other he had ever met. _She_ had asked him to accompany her; _she_ had begged him to be her support. What kind of man denied such a request, especially from a woman he found so utterly breathtaking?

If he spoke this damning truth, he could win this. Their little game had come to a stalemate; if he presented these facts, he could win the argument… but it would strip him bare. Leave him vulnerable for her to crush beneath her dainty little feet. To expose this—this horrible little secret he kept so close to his bleeding heart—would be the absolute end of him, even beyond death, and he did not have the strength. He could not make that leap again; could not hand her himself and _pray_ that she would accept it and cherish it. Why would she? This endless marvel could capture and hold any heart she wished in her unassuming grasp, for there was not a single man—in their right mind, at any rate—that would deny her the pleasure. Why on earth would she settle for his meager little organ? It bled and gushed of putrid bile whilst begging for her to coo and coddle the damaged thing with love.

So, in lieu of the sacrifice that would come of winning, he remained silent.

Alice, recognizing herself as the victor, was animated again, all smiles and bright eyes. A little pride was worth this result, he concluded. With vigor, she started speaking of all who would be in attendance and what kind of alcohol that would be present. Open bar and karaoke, tons of dancing and an endless array of hypothetical situations that made them laugh and chuckle with the ridiculousness of it all.

The conversation, inevitably, kept leaping from one spectrum to another, none of them connecting to the other. They spoke of cars and movies, music and waffles, classes and restaurants, dreams and ice cream. They spoke of tea and they spoke of the Theory of Evolution. The topics were seemingly random and had no rhyme or reason behind any of it; they simply were. Alice acted the flake more often than not, but the girl _did_ know a wide scale of things. Never had he doubted her intelligence, but it was easy to forget the brilliant mind behind those dreamy, glazed eyes. The daughter of the late and great Charles Kingsleigh—the pioneer of the United Kingdom's trade commerce and diplomatic relations, as he recalled—was _not_ a foppotee, but, in fact, a pregnantress in the making—if not already.

With their dialogue flailing wildly, the time passed quickly. Too quickly, in his opinion, but all good things must come to an end. When he suggested she enter the rambunctious pub—even at this distance, he could hear jeers and the cries of the hopelessly intoxicated—while he roamed around for a proper parking, she nearly balked, her pleading eyes beseeching him. "Can't we just go in together?" was her question, the tone small and desperate. Her fingers tangled into the sleeve of his shirt as a lonely child would to their departing parent.

It nearly crushed him. "Don't be silly, Alice," he chided, trying to steady his fluttering nerves. "I'll just be a minute."

She shook her head ardently. "It will be an hour before you find a spot out here; Mally has a _lot_ of friends."

"I'd gathered as much," he mused, eyeing the rows of vehicles outside of the Three Sisters. Had Mallymkun invited _all_ of Ireland? Alice had not been exaggerating in her estimate of time. "I suppose the company will not be _dreadfully_ painful to bear."

That grin of hers should be outlawed… except, he would never be able to enjoy it so. "Excellent! Now, onto a matter of dire importance."

"Oh?" His interest was piqued. She had not mentioned this all-consuming issue before and they had had _plenty_ of time on the way here. "And what would that be, my dear lady?" Tarrant slowly rolled his vehicle forward, glancing about for ample space. Perhaps this new venue of discussion would eat away at the time… though, by the looks of it, they had a _long_ way to go before he they would be able to stretch their legs. Honestly, he did _not_ look forward to joining whatever band of miscreants that insane woman—Alice's insanity was beautiful in its nature, whilst Mallymkun was just _bat-shit crazy_… in his opinion—called 'friends'. The fact that she and Alice had made a connection the moment the two met in class last year was not entirely unfeasible… but it made life a lot harder when he had to deal with Mally pandering through his drawers and ruining his well-kept order _just to piss him off_.

"You never told me if I looked adequate. Gentlemen always comment on a ladies' attire before heading off to a ball."

He certainly had _not_ expected that one. Adequate? She was a vision; the very portrait of perfection. Had she been a 'scurvy wench' in the days of yore, he was sure hardened men would have laid down their arms against Queen and country for her. Noble men from noble families would have gifted their estates and thrown away their precious titles if she would only promise to smile upon them just once more. The little vixen! _Adequate?_ Surely she could not be so blind to her own magnificence. He laughed in spite of himself. "I'd _hardly_ call this a ball."

"No," she conceded, that smile still in place. "But you should indulge me anyway."

He sobered a little, but he could not hide his mirth. His words were closer to the truth than he would ever dare to tread. "Your beauty outshines the heavens, my dear."

The little flush of pleasure brought great joy and he was glad that, for once, he had said the right thing. Too many times had he babbled some nonsense for the sake of hiding what he wanted to shout from the rooftops like a madman. She, on the other hand, found a way to reverse the field. "That doesn't count."

Tarrant could not help the slight offense. Did his opinion not matter? Why would she ask it if it counted for nothing? "Oh? How so?" he challenged. Alice was not the kind of person to fish for compliments—he had known women of that variety and wished very much to _never_ associate with that type again—so what was the point of this ruse? A dark, ugly thought appeared just then, unbidden and unwanted; had she not said that _Stayne_ would be here tonight? Had she not said that she wished his company for the very purpose of shielding her against the unpleasantness of what her former boyfriend may cause? Tarrant wanted to kick himself. He should have seen this before—_had_ seen it, for he had many sisters—but why would he ponder such an idea when he was too busy blissfully filling his silly, errant mind with his own delusions?

What an imbecile. Alice was never so animated and giddy over such frivolous events. Alice never dressed so carefully. Tarrant had held her for hours in the aftermath of her separation from Ilosovic, whispering consoling promises of brighter futures and of people who deserved her. Of _course_ the girl wanted to know exactly how she measured up from a male's perspective; what better way to garner revenge from someone that broke your heart than to arrive in the most ravaging outfit possible, arm-in-arm with someone else? All of this for another man. Her beautiful, sweet eyes, her winning smiles, her adorable little ploy to chaperone her… _for another man_. The betrayal ran deep and he found it hard to focus any longer on the aisles of mechanized transports around him.

Beside him, she seemed oblivious to his inner turmoil. "You don't believe in God, so it follows that you don't believe in Heaven either," she teased.

Ah, yes. Clever girl. She had managed to gain even that from him, all while plotting for the simple act of making another man jealous. How much more would she take before he realized his own folly? He would _never have her_. A part of him kept egging him on, sure that if he showered her with attention and waited on her hand and foot, that she would see him as worthy of her time. Her companionship. Her _love_. What a damned _fool_.

He wanted to snap at her. Wanted to shout and throw her out of the vehicle and tell her to find _another fucking arsehole_ to push and pull to the motion of her every whim. His grip on the steering wheel tightened and he tried—for her, for him, for the sake of not _ripping apart that egg-sucking son of a whore_ in this sudden rise of temper—valiantly to stem the tide of anger. He could be a _gentleman_, and when he finally got back home, he would _tear apart every shred of their living quarters until the rage stopped boiling in his blood_ like an animal… he would even drive this _soul-stealing, conniving, back-stabbing, two-faced trollop_ home… but he would _not_ be the puppet on her strings.

Tarrant needed to calm himself. If he spoke now, the sheer _hatred_ that _rampaged_ through him would completely overwhelm anything he could possibly say. And she was still waiting for an _adequate_ answer. In an odd monotone he barely recognized as his own, he gave her the raw truth, uncaring and very, inexplicably, numb… the one and only time he would ever dare to speak so plainly was the one and only time he simply did not care.

_And it gives us sight  
And we see the light  
And it burned so bright  
Now we know we're right  
_

**AFTERWORD: **This will be a _two-_parter.

I'm pretty sure the University of Edinburgh (a real college in Edinburgh, Scotland) does _not_ have a co-ed dorm, and I _know_ it doesn't have a Fashion academy of _any_ kind. The Three Sisters _is _real, as is the distance from the University to said pub, and themed pubs are actually quite a rage there – everything from American and Australian themes, to a "Frankenstein's Pub". A lot of this information (regarding the country) is real, in fact; I just warped it a tiny bit to suit my needs. I did a _lot_ of research for this. Took me _hours_. And this song is "God Given", by Nine Inch Nails.

Thank you all _so much_ for your wonderful reviews regarding my poopfudge (_Everlasting Embers_) – you have _no_ idea how terribly relieved and happy I was to see them. I appreciate your support thus far and, for those of you who have read _E.E_, I hope you enjoyed this one as well. For those who haven't – if you enjoyed this, then you might enjoy its sequel. Review/criticize if you can – or flame, but please word it eloquently and try to focus on what needs improvement instead of "This sucks. _You_ suck. Eat shit and die!" _Those_ kind of flames don't help at _all_.

Again, I sincerely thank you for taking the time to read this. And thank you everyone who reviewed _E.E_ – you are what inspired me to write this. _YOUR_ doing! I hope I did not disappoint.

**FUN INFORMATION: **savethewords(dot)org: if you love words, then save them! I've adopted _foppotee_ and _pregnantress_.


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